


we are made for leaving

by coppertears



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7155992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppertears/pseuds/coppertears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there is no appropriate label for their relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are made for leaving

  
**we are made for leaving**  
kris/luhan  
pg-13  
w: unbeta’d, the occasional swear, (somewhat) dark themes  
there is no appropriate label for their relationship.  
gift fic for [](http://uponinfinity.livejournal.com/profile)[**uponinfinity**](http://uponinfinity.livejournal.com/).

 

 

 

 

they meet in downtown alleys alive with the back door flow of people who never have clean intentions, and stumbling drunks still six feet under the control of alcohol. luhan’s never been one to hide what he wants and kris, well, kris is the perfect pretender.

in the shadows they are lovers, exchanging breaths that scald and steam, and kisses that sear nerves. every touch is too hot, burning low beneath skin, and everything feels just a little more desperate when they’re both veiled in secrecy. this is what they know, roles they play most of the time.

sometimes they are best friends sloshed beyond any hope of sobriety, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. liquor-tainted whispers drift and part between them. somewhere along dead-end conversations, a pearl of truth slips out, but neither one can ever let the honesty last.

mostly, though, they are strangers up until the point when they collide again.

 

 

 

 

the contours of kris' face are made out of moonlit dreams, flickering in the shadows that hang heavy all over the room. luhan traces the curve of the cheek, the line of the lips, the slant of the jaw -- he sketches over the sleeping man's silhouette with light presses of his fingertips, as if the cold will go away somehow. it's always like this _after_ , when bones collapse on cotton and veins are made of air, and kris drifts off into unconsciousness while luhan lies awake with a war in his head.

he's never been comfortable in anyone's bed but his own, skin rippling with a strange kind of missing, yearning for something that can be so easily replaced. perhaps it's why he rushes forward when they do it, coming apart with his back molded into the wall or sinking down into the carpet or unraveling, thread by thread, on tabletops and marble surfaces. he likes it better when it's too rough and too fast, because there is no room for thinking and he's living in the bright-hot sparking of flesh. dried tinder catching in an oxygenated room.

he waits until morning crawls in, settling down on his lap and all over his bare back, hitting kris' chest with a muffled punch of yellow-orange. luhan counts _1, 2_ , and kris is sitting up. he is all bleary eyes and long torso and elbows that protest against the constraints of skin. kris leans back and groans. luhan takes this as his cue to push off the blankets from himself and begin his treasure hunt for pants.

"do you want breakfast?" kris asks, tone rumbling and washing the walls in shades of blue-gray and black.

luhan meets his gaze as he puts on his underwear. "i'd rather eat you for breakfast."

kris blinks. "but you're putting on your clothes."

"what i meant was," luhan says, laughter stumbling out of his jaw, "i'd really rather not have breakfast here. especially when you're the one cooking."

he moves his gaze back down, feet methodically sliding into denim. from the periphery of his vision, he sees kris slump back amongst his pillows, blond hair askew. there are shadows breaking over the taller man’s face but luhan knows the spell is broken. despite the fact that the teasing is light between them, he knows -- kris knows -- they know the spell is broken. it’s seven hours past midnight and luhan has to leave.

“well,” luhan says, unbuttoned polo shirt only just hanging from his frame, “see you when i see you next.” he flutters his fingers, blows a marilyn monroe kiss. kris raises his eyebrows at this theatricality and shakes his head.

luhan fixes himself up during the walk from the bedroom to the main door. he slips on his shoes, which have rolled underneath the sofa though luhan doesn’t remember why. his watch beeps _7:15_ up at him and luhan’s out of kris’ apartment, last night’s events already rusting away into copper-toned flakes of memory.

he gets in his car and throws them all away when he passes by a ditch.

 

 

 

 

luhan doesn’t know anything beyond gated compounds and synthetic grass.

as a child, he’d grown up in artificial environments, every piece of reality stamped out and postage-marked for a far away place. he knew the meaning of the word _honor_ before _family_ , knew the subtleties of _pride_ and _duty_ and _excellence_ before _friendship_ and _youth_. he played soccer with the concrete and the lengthening sun, watched the way his cleats dug holes into the landscape as he ran after carbon dioxide opponents.

“aerating,” he’d said to his father, brown eyes blinking innocence despite the disappointment threatening to flood the room, “it’s to help the soil breathe.”

his father locked up the soccer balls and jerseys and cleats. luhan didn’t know what it was to cry. he stared at the shut door with a silence that unnerved the house help, and then he tore up the posters in his room. he threw away the dvds, had the sports channels blocked, burnt his books about soccer in a gasoline leap for ashes. luhan’s fingers tightened around the zippo as he watched the flames lick the skies clean of any stars.

the next day, he’d moved on to playing the piano, but not before leaving charred crop circles all over the yard.

his parents eyed the music with as much distaste as they had for soccer. one night, luhan plopped down on the bench with an unspoked command of _listen to me_ , and then he’d played concerto after concerto, fingers straining across the octaves. dinner was fish fillet in lemon vinaigrette, and it drowned in the _arpeggio_ s that luhan executed with so much ease. he turned to his parents then, spine stiff with the consciousness of maintaining posture.

“there is not a single soccer player in our lineage,” he’d said in a soothing, almost placating tone, “but there are several concert pianists and other musical prodigies. i think, father, mother, you cannot deny me this.”

his father wiped his mouth with a linen table napkin then put it down. thunder simmered in his wake when he left the room. his mother threw her head back and drank her wine in one gulp.

luhan was allowed to keep playing the piano.

 

 

 

 

kris is an amalgamation of basketball trophies and mainstream music, his fashion tastes running the gamut from _high couture_ to _eccentric hippie_. his first time in the taller guy’s apartment, luhan takes stock of all these things, stores the information in the back of his mind in case he ever needs leverage.

he lets the bruises bloom on inches of pale skin, tracing glossy lyric pages of albums that always sell out millions the day they are released. kris’ voice is deep and bordering on dangerous; luhan wonders what it’s like if the other man’s racing across the court, yelling out orders because luhan knows that kris will never be anything short of captain. he watches kris’ fingers decorate him with lust, curious to know if the patterns will echo the elegance of the goyard bags sitting on kris’ shelves, or perhaps recreate the strange intensity of alexander mcqueen prints.

luhan’s picked up smoking in the past few years, cigarette burns on his finger pads covered with copious amounts of make-up. he figures he can get them looking pristine once again if he drops by his dermatologist the week after next. for now, he declines kris’ offer of marlboro sticks and leans his temples against the glass sliding door, watching kris blow out carcinogenic rings. luhan doesn’t care. he breathes them in, watches the embers of kris’ eyes glow golden-brown in the orange sheen of studio lights, decides to come back because he likes the darkness congealing along the edges of kris’ existence.

“you have to promise me something,” luhan says with a small quirk of his lips. he sees himself blown up in kris’ irises, captured in matte gloss against a backdrop of gray.

kris raises an eyebrow. “i don’t make promises.”

luhan chuckles, lets his chest rise and fall with amusement. “of course not,” he manages to say, “of course not. but this is a promise to not make any promises. i am not beholden to you, and you are not beholden to me.”

kris’ shoulders slump as he rearranges the way his limbs are propped on the carpeted floor. the broadness of his shoulders and the slope of his torso suggest too much exposure in the limelight, fabric draped all over him in that almost perfect way that sends camera shutters clicking. his gaze is heavy. “what are we, then?” he asks, the question slow to rise on his tongue. “friends with benefits?”

“no,” luhan says. “i don’t think we’re even friends.”

the cigarette stains kris’ knuckles soot black. it crumbles in the palms of his hands, but luhan can still see the fire wavering inside the cave of kris’ mouth. toxins smeared on lips he’d kissed just moments ago.

“you don’t know me,” luhan continues, drawing shapes on his thigh. “i don’t know you. every meeting is our first.”

“but i do know you.” the statement hovers on stale breaths. “and you do know me.”

luhan’s phone rings.

 

 

 

 

they meet for the first time in the thick of mergers and glasses of champagne, each one sandwiched between parents whose names stand taller than any building they’ve ever built. they’ve both clocked in the same number of years so far, and so they’re introduced to each other because they’re on different ends of the spectrum and will never clash.

luhan is shorter than his father and mother. kris towers over all of them.

 _basketball player, supermodel, rising up the ranks of the company_ shoots a perfect arc out of luhan’s retention ability. he’s too fixated on how rigidly kris holds himself, blond fringe streaking things indecipherable over the upper half of his face. there is an addictive quality to how he seems to growl out words. his mother says that kris speaks four languages. luhan decides kris can speak several hundred obscure dialects and he will still not understand him, but body language transcends all that is verbal.

he’s the perfect child that night, smile like magic sewn onto his lips, fingers painting melodies when several guests insist that he must play the piano for them. he can feel everyone’s eyes on him when he settles on the bench, but he knows that kris’ gaze is the heaviest.

luhan wants to study the ways humans unravel beneath feather-light touches. kris is the perfect test subject.

 

 

 

 

sometimes he likes driving around the city in his bodyguard’s car, windows tinted and bulletproofed. luhan rolls them down, pretends that his last name doesn’t trigger assassination attempts, and turns up the volume high enough to fill the empty roads with static. it clears his head more than anything else.

his parents have been more aggressive about marriage lately. luhan’s lost count of how many dinners he’s attended and how many debutantes have been paraded under his nose, each girl more coy and vapid than the last.

on his bedside table one morning, he’d found a list of women that his parents had deemed eligible. they all looked the same, with their pretty faces and dead eyes and endless lines of achievement, arranged according to their status and wealth. he’d burned the list in his bath tub and turned the tap on, submerging himself in watered-down ashes and wondering, with a hint of sarcasm, what his parents would think if they knew he preferred the same sex.

they’d disown him, of course. obliterate his existence. leave him with nothing but the skin on his back.

his soul, they’d already taken a long time ago.

 

 

 

 

tension is fly-paper covering the dining room walls, ready to trap anyone in its sticky embrace. luhan helps himself to the duck covered in orange sauce, tries to pretend that his parents aren’t around so they can corner him again, spears the meat and chews it. his father has dismissed the maid serving them a while ago. his mother swirls the red wine in her glass.

halfway through the mint sorbet, his father puts down his spoon. “what exactly do you want, luhan?” he asks.

luhan makes it a point to smack his lips as he says, “a new car, sir. bugatti veyron or porsche.” he flashes a winning smile, knows it falls flat in the face of his father’s grim expression.

“hundreds of ladies,” his father says. “ _hundreds_ of them, knocking on your door, and yet you refuse?”

“they bore me,” luhan yawns. he scrapes up the last helpings of the sorbet. “too young, some of them. no one who is too old, but all of them bland and tasteless. academic merit isn’t the only basis for attraction.”

“you don’t need to be _attracted_ ,” his father hisses. “and they are all well-bred young women that you should not speak so crassly about! no, the only thing you need is to choose someone who will be a suitable match for you, who has a sensible head on her shoulders and is in a high-ranking position, preferably someone fertile.”

luhan abandons any thought of appearing genial then. he leans back in his chair with a twisted smile, but the frost still creeps through. “like a dog, then?” he sneers. “or a cow? a pig?” he likes the way his father’s cheeks are blotchy red. “most animals are fertile, father. so are most women. but i will not be made into some factory for children, just to carry on the bloodline and “keep the family honor” -- i may be trapped but god forbid i drag in someone else.” he glances at his mother, sees the way her fingers grasp just that much tighter around the neck of the wine glass. “i thought you knew that you’re not fit to handle children. it was pretty clear when you had me.”

his father slams down his fist on the table. there is anger surrounding him, leaking out of his very pores. “ _leave_.”

luhan stands up and pushes back his chair. “gladly. pay my compliments to the cook, will you? i mean, if you aren’t planning to fire him yet.”

something crashes to the floor. luhan doesn’t know what it is; he doesn’t care enough to look back.

 

 

 

 

luhan stumbles into kris a week after they are introduced to each other. it’s a social function for heirs of huge corporations, and luhan attends because he’s gotten ahold of the guest list and seen kris among those who have confirmed. he arrives late, meanders through the stuffy atmosphere with a loose tie, and ends up drinking a martini at the balcony.

it’s colder here. no one’s around to see the blazer he’s thrown to the side or the sleeves he’s rolled up to his elbows. he still hasn’t seen kris, but luhan isn’t bothered by that.

what bothers him is the severe lack of alcohol, but then what was he expecting? he’s with his own kind, after all. this is a party of people who have far too much to lose, of titles dangling in front of a knife. scandals aren’t tolerated. luhan will just have to suck up 70% water, 30% liquor with as much grace as he can muster; it’s not like he hasn’t done a dress rehearsal for this maybe a thousand times before.

“feeling anti-social?” a voice says behind him.

luhan smiles to himself and drains his glass. “does that disappoint you?”

he feels more than sees the presence shrug. “no, but this isn’t the luhan i’ve heard about. the newspapers say you’re friendly and good-natured and accommodating.”

“i imagine that in your dictionary,” luhan says and turns to face kris, “those words mean _fake_ and _ass kisser_ and _crowd pleaser_ , yes?”

the taller guy’s face is impassive. he tilts his head and most of his features are swallowed whole by the darkness, but luhan has no problem picturing what he looks like. “not exactly, but pretty close.” he steps forward. “why are you here?”

“networking,” luhan says smoothly. “one must establish connections.”

“for what?” kris shakes his head. “you’re just going to cut them all off the first chance you get.”

luhan hums. “such a cynic,” he says. the smile’s still sweet on his lips. “i like that.”

“you don’t delay things, do you?”

“nope,” luhan says. he drops the glass; neither he nor kris look down to see the crystal arrayed in fragments at their feet. “i don’t.”

kris throws his head back and laughs.

 

 

 

 

on his parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, luhan is dressed in a starch-stiffened suit with diamond cuff links, leather shoes polished until they can reflect the surroundings. he looks at himself in the mirror and wonders, not for the last time, how the public is so easily fooled. people can choose what to believe in, shape their convictions in the ways that only they know. luhan is far from a saint and he knows this. his every move is calculated, every word steaming in his mind until it rolls off, smooth and perfect, from his tongue.

still he thinks that there must be people who see through his disguise. kris is one of them, but luhan thinks that there are many more. there are eyes that dissect him and peel him apart when he enters a room. they are heavy on his shoulders, burdening him with a weight that he’s learned to carry, and listening to the nuances of each thing he utters.

luhan is used to judgment. he dislikes the observation, the illusion that he is in a glass case. a novelty meant for the consumption of the masses, guzzled dry until he is of no substance, until wind whistles through his carved bones. sometimes when the cameras flash in his direction, luhan finds it more like another attempt to bleach him white. to take away the bits and pieces of himself straggling up his chest.

later he drifts off as reporters interview his parents. it’s a sappy drama of love and success that they are trying to reel in and his parents bite, fingers intertwined and tones sweeter than sugar. luhan can read the anxiety in their kneecaps, the revulsion in bone-white knuckles, the dislike spreading inky-black in their irises.

he plays the role of obedient son, piano prodigy, and accomplished young man ready to take on the challenge of manning the family business. even though, on incandescent evenings, luhan turned on his heel and left his father sputtering air. even though he played mad symphonies that tore the walls apart, after every engagement his mother had forced on him. even though he spent his days shouting himself hoarse, enumerating all the reasons why luhan _refused_ to take over the company -- that he wasn’t going to do it, not for a single second.

“they’re soul mates,” he tells the lady from cnn, “in love with each other from the start. they’d show me their wedding pictures and tell me how happy they were to have found each other.” he puts on a brilliant smile just to spite his parents. it incenses them, the fact that luhan has the media wrapped around his pinky finger. he charms everyone out of believing the rumors about him growing underfoot.

“doesn’t it feel lonely at times?” the lady asks. her suit is red, and her hair is beautifully coiffed.

it’s the only shard of truth in the entire interview, the only thing he’s honest enough about: “yes, it does.”

he shoves away the image of kris’ face in his mind, locks it up in a box and places it in a disused corner of his memory. surrounds it with barbed wire. buries it ten then twelve feet deep, until luhan is reminded enough times of the promise to not make any promises.

it’s his own doing, after all.

 

 

 

 

it’s an unplanned escape from the house to attend a full-on rager that has luhan more than a little tipsy, slinging arms around people’s shoulders and inhaling alcohol breaths. he’s not an embarrassing drunk, not bad enough to instigate a scandal, but he gets clingy. clingy luhan is as annoying as static plastic film, hard to pry off of surfaces without curling around the edges.

for some reason, he ends up playing beer pong in the basement, adding five more shots to the fifteen he’s already drunk. at the back of his mind, he vaguely remembers that he has to go home before the guards switch. climb over the alarm-rigged wall and pull himself up to his bedroom window, dive onto his mattress before the hour hand slips over to eight. it’s a saturday tomorrow but luhan is expected to be inside the compound unless it’s a school day.

he gets pulled away when people start chanting for a game of strip poker. luhan presses up against the person dragging him, soaking in warmth that feels familiar. his stomach sloshes with bile but he’s always been good at holding it in -- at holding everything in.

“what are you doing?” a voice murmurs in his ear. luhan thinks he’s imagining the fury condensed within it.

“drinking!” he slings his arms around the stranger’s neck and nuzzles his nose against what feels like a full cheek. his actions aren’t reciprocated. luhan pouts. “aww, you’re no fun.”

“you can’t do this, luhan. you’re not supposed to be here.”

luhan blinks. something about the way it’s said feels too intimate, as if the person _knows_ him in a way that goes beyond shared subjects and lunch breaks. he looks up and everything is out of focus, like he’s looking through a pinhole camera and dropping the shutter before one twenty, colors bleeding into each other. he blinks again, and his vision is much clearer.

the hard lines and angles of kris’ face comes into view and luhan giggles. “hi, kris!” he greets cheerfully. “didn’t -- didn’t peg you for the partying type.”

“i’m not,” kris says. luhan wants to ask why he’s still sober. he sniffs kris’ coat and recognizes the stench of vodka, but kris’ eyes are the most focused that luhan’s ever seen them. “luhan, did you slip out of your house?”

luhan nods his head. he rests the right side of his face against kris’ chest -- it’s nice, the _thump thump thump_ of kris’ heartbeat straining against the silk-wool blend of his sweater.

“let’s take you home,” kris murmurs somewhere above him, and luhan wants to protest but he’s moving again. he’s moving, and luhan counts thirty steps before he gives up. they stop in front of a pretty brunette, luhan catching a whiff of _i need to bring him back_ spilling out of kris’ mouth, and then they’re out. the air clears his thoughts somewhat.

“who was that?” he slurs as kris carries him to his car. “that girl. she was pretty. nice red lips.”

“jessica,” kris says. “isn’t she on the list of women you’re allowed to marry?” the harshness of his tone flies past luhan’s notice, descends into the folds of the leather seat cover.

luhan frowns and tries to decide how many fingers he has. “what’s she to you?”

“none of your business,” kris replies, and then he’s shifting gear and getting out of the driveway.

somehow it hurts. the casual side-stepping of the question, the brusqueness of kris’ answer, the lack of tenderness in his hands when he deposits luhan in the passenger’s seat. for some reason, luhan can still see kris’ hand wrapping around jessica’s waist and his eyes darkening while he talks to her. the pain is slow to come but it’s there, a banked fire being coaxed back to life. mild venom dripping into his system, undetected and unstoppable, until it builds up and drains him of any strength.

it’s the kind of pain he’s been associating with kris lately, and luhan will never admit it but it hurts a lot more than he lets on.

they stop by the drugstore to pick up pills for hangover, and luhan’s just regaining snatches of sobriety when kris parks just a few feet away from the compound gate that luhan had escaped through. he doesn’t question how kris knows, or how kris stumbles with him to the gate, or how kris looks down at him as he removes luhan’s arm from around his shoulders.

the headlights of kris’ car cut swathes of blinding white through the light drizzle. it’s chilly. luhan whines, and kris takes off his cardigan and drapes it over luhan’s head.

as he pushes open the gate, luhan thinks that the ghost of a good night kiss is still lingering on his forehead, but he’s not so sure.

 

 

 

 

“i should introduce you to my parents,” luhan says after another rendezvous they’d had, voice muffled by kris’ chest. he feels the other guy shift beneath him. in the darkness, he can still make out the quickening of kris’ pulse, racing to eighty beats a minute then dropping down to seventy.

“they already know me,” kris says. his voice is a blank slate, but then everything about kris is. it’s the reason why luhan keeps coming back, why he extends the initial three visits to five and then more, why he’s here right now. he likes imprinting himself on kris. likes to leave his mark, to ruin that blank slate, to swipe mismatched hues all over the canvas of kris’ consciousness.

“not like that.” luhan laughs, at first for show then just for the thoughts that he’s thinking. “i mean, introduce you as the reason why i’m never marrying a girl.”

kris lets the silence bloom between them. his hands card through luhan’s hair. “and how would you go about that?” he asks, syllables light and languid. “ _ma’am, sir, this is kris. you know him as the supermodel, but he’s actually the cause of my dislike for the opposite sex._ that sounds too long to me.”

luhan rests his chin on what he thinks is kris’ collarbone. “no, no, that’s too contrived,” he says. “too pompous.”

he feels kris shrug. “or, you can say i’m your boyfriend.” his tone is still light, but there is an undercurrent of something luhan still can’t find a name for.

“out of the question,” luhan clucks, and strangely enough it feels like he’s driven in a wedge. it cuts through them, into them -- sinks into the very marrow of their bones and settles, acidic, in the bottom of their stomachs. it’s been weighing them down for months now. “you’re not my boyfriend.”

“i know.” the words whip out flat and tasteless from kris. luhan receives them, allows them to find shelter in his ears because he doesn’t know how else to take them.

“we’ve talked about this before,” luhan says, trying to be playful even as a hollow feeling crowds his heart. “i’m not beholden to you, you’re not beholden to me.”

“of course not,” kris drawls out. “how silly of me to think that would change after all this time. i’m not beholden to you, of course, but i still have to keep my door open for when you come stumbling in at three in the morning for whatever reason. sometimes to fuck, sometimes to cuddle, sometimes to unload all of yourself on me.”

luhan raises his head and rolls over so he and kris are face to face. something is bubbling up deep inside him when he meets kris’ defiant gaze head-on. “what does that mean?”

“it means what you think it means,” kris murmurs. “you say we’re not beholden to each other, that there is nothing to link us, but you come to me every time. you come to me every single time, _and i cannot close the damned door in your face_.”

before luhan can stop himself, he snipes out, “you let other people inside, as well.”

it’s curious, this picture they paint. both of them fashioned out of darkness, curves highlighted by the interplay of light and shadow, their time together sculpted from stolen seconds. every nerve on luhan’s body is alert. every infinitesimal move kris makes, he registers and then flings into the crevices of other sensations.

“why not?” kris finally says. “at least they’re honest about what they want from me.”

luhan can almost smell the smoke of bridges burning.

“and you, luhan? have you ever been honest about what you want?”

there are answers fighting to the forefront of luhan’s mind. he opens his mouth, lets his silence speak for him. and then he’s rolling off of the couch and scrambling to his feet, instinctively reaching for his clothes and pulling them on. he can see the outline of kris’ body as he sits up.

“what are we, luhan?”

he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, and he never wants to know. that night, he throws open the apartment door and rushes into the hands of softly fading moonlight, too caught up in his desire to run.

he misses the telltale _click_ of a camera shutter being pressed.

 

 

 

 

he wasn’t careful enough.

luhan’s known and accepted this the moment the news erupts, incriminating pictures tainting his reputation faster than the blink of an eye. he watches the damage spread, and is only just grateful that the press doesn’t know whose apartment he’d come from. the company’s publicity team goes into overdrive trying to keep the scandal from blowing up.

he reaches for his phone and scrolls through his contacts. for a second, just a second, he lets himself miss kris. and then he’s pressing _delete_ , until his blurry memories are the only monuments left to whatever they had.

the door opens and the butler enters, bowing low. “sir, your father requests your presence at his study.”

luhan sighs. “tell him i’ll be there in a minute.”

he looks around the room, knowing he won’t ever be back here. that after he makes his confession, there will be no more heir to the company, no more child to carry on the family name. his childhood frays in the corners of his bedroom. his growing up years gather dust on the window sills. luhan looks and looks but he knows, like he’s known for a long time now, that there is nothing he is leaving behind.

nothing at all -- just _someone_.

 

 

 

 

when he was 18, luhan had started penning his own music. by then he’d participated in various orchestras and recitals, back straight as he played pieces that increased in difficulty as time wore on. he’d completed several symphonies of his making and performed them, but when he’d first started, he’d been unable to work his way through the melody he wanted to play.

the feelings were there, the sentiments bleeding in the transitions. intentions crackled in every rest, luhan’s wrist bent and fingers lifted off of the keys, metronome swinging. somehow everything was difficult to condense into music sheets and notes. after several weeks he’d given up, moved on to lighter themes and worked his way from there.

the day after kris had brought him back home from the party he’d escaped to, luhan found himself digging out those tattered sheets. he’d rolled up his sleeves, propped his first composition on the stand. he heard all the notes, but where he once found frustration, he only saw beauty. he only saw things running deeper than he’d ever meant them to, unraveling throughout these years.

and luhan didn’t know how things with kris would end, but he knew what the finale for this piece would sound like. he knew, and he wrote it down, and when he’d played through the entire thing, he recognized the happiness curling up in his chest.

he titled his masterpiece _leaving_.

 

 

 

 

wine soaks the rug. papers flutter from the shelves. his parents are shrinking back from him, maybe because of fury or disgust or both. there is a bruise taking root in the corner of luhan’s lips and growing up until his cheekbone.

“you are no son of mine,” his father spits out.

luhan smiles, fights back a grimace when he feels the sting of the cut on his lower lip. “i haven’t been for a long time, actually.”

“you can’t stay here.”

“of course.”

“you can never come back to china.”

“i understand.”

his father points a finger at him, vexed by the casual tone of luhan’s answers. “are you not ashamed of yourself?”

luhan just shrugs. “you’ve been ashamed of me for years, sir,” he says. “you’re doing well in that department.”

his father’s chest heaves. glass crunches beneath his mother’s heels.

“do you have anything else to say? no? then i must say farewell to you both. i understand you have no son anymore; i am sorry to hear that. sorry for you, actually, for thinking this will hurt him.” he grins at the two of them. “good day.”

he walks out of the study and closes the door behind them. and maybe, maybe it should matter -- maybe it should rankle, the unfairness of it all. maybe the pain should skewer his heart and squeeze out tears.

luhan just knows freedom tastes bittersweet. he has no regrets.

_what are we?_

except for one.

_and you, luhan? have you ever been honest about what you want?_

luhan keeps walking, keeps passing by frame upon frame of his past. keeps leaving the relics of his identity. keeps letting go of his younger self, once obedient and whole and free of scars.

_you come to me every time._

he walks out of the main entrance, out into the front yard. sunlight pools on the front steps.

_i cannot close the damned door in your face._

and for the first, last and only time in his life, luhan walks out of the front gate. he thinks kris would have probably laughed at this, would have called him out on his theatrics. _you can never resist making a scene_ , he can imagine kris saying.

tears, luhan decides, are not as salty as he thought they would be.

 

 

 

 

the bedroom is washed in cold yellows and frosty oranges, blankets not enough to stop the arrival of morning. it’s luhan’s third visit to kris, the last visit he’d said he would make. except, when kris stirs and wraps his arm around luhan’s waist, he finds it hard to leave. to move on and find another warm body, a sack of flesh and bones that will never feel as safe and comforting as kris.

he thinks he should be alarmed but right now, he just feels content. he lets laziness drip down his consciousness, leaking down his spine. it’s a friday, anyway. he captures kris’ profile in his memory, frames it with a fondness that he tries to suppress, tucks it away so he won’t feel guilty.

“we can be friends,” kris murmurs, eyes still closed.

“hmm?” luhan reaches out, traces the bridge of kris’ nose with the tip of his forefinger.

“we can be friends.” kris blinks awake, and there is a depth to his gaze that pulls luhan in, almost drowning him in brown irises and sparse eyelashes. “we can be friends, at least.”

luhan hums. “i’ll think about it.”

kris snares him with a look that’s on the edge of pleading but not quite, not yet. “just friends,” he repeats. “we can have at least that. let me have at least that.”

and luhan yawns, rolls out of bed. he stretches. it’s getting lighter now, the darkness receding. he flashes kris a playful grin.

“maybe.”

 

 

 

 

 _spain isn’t so bad_ , luhan thinks. it’s not as appreciative of pianists and a day out in the streets can spray him red from head to toe, but the place is buzzing with ages-old traditions and culture, and he hears the whispers of history rising from the pavement. he likes it. it’s something he can grow used to.

he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee. it’s hot out today, and sweat drips down his neck. he’s dressed in a casual shirt and a pair of jeans. they’re more comfortable than the scratchy suits he used to wear what feels like a lifetime ago.

“couldn’t leave without making a scene, could you?”

the voice is familiar, too familiar. the skittering of his pulse is familiar as well. luhan lets the smile grown on his lips, brighter and brighter until his cheeks hurt, and maybe he cries but that’s okay. that’s okay, he thinks, that’s more than okay -- and of course, of course he made a scene.

he looks up and takes in the sight of kris, long and lanky and still beautiful, burning underneath the sun in the middle of madrid. and kris is all bundled up, a scarf wound around his neck. luhan knows he’s crying, they’re both crying, and he’s laughing when he realizes it, and now they’re both laughing. they’re both laughing, and luhan’s gone a long way to be free, but he will never regret any step he’s made. he will never regret meeting kris. never, not even when a thousand suns die in a single breath.

and there are things he wants to say, so many things that threaten to pour out of his heart and rip open his skin. _what are we?_ resounds in his head. luhan knows the answer now, has known it all along. but he blinks, he cries, he laughs, he stands up and holds kris’ face in his hands -- he pulls him forward until they are too close -- and he whispers:

“what took you so long?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
